


Stay Cool, It's Just A Kiss

by luftballons99



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Best Friends, Boys Kissing, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Middle School, Practice Kissing, Pre-Canon, Romance, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 08:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14564748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons99/pseuds/luftballons99
Summary: Tamaki clears his throat. “I was just thinking, since we’re best friends and neither of us has done it before,” he starts, doing his best to appear calm, chin raised, “that the two of us should kiss.”There’s a beat of silence before, distantly, Kyoya registers the sound of an explosion coming from the TV, computer-generated fire casting the room in flickering orange light.He opens his mouth to speak, but the words never come. Not for the first time since the beginning of their friendship, Kyoya wonders if he really understands Tamaki at all.Them, kissing.Them.Kissing.





	1. Winter

**Author's Note:**

> title from "talk too much" by COIN

It is their final winter as middle schoolers when Kyoya and Tamaki kiss for the first time. 

They are huddled underneath a kotatsu in the electric blue glow of the flat screen TV mounted on Kyoya’s bedroom wall, sharing a basket of mandarins, tea, and companionable silence. Kyoya is picking at the bits of mandarin peel stuck under his fingernails and Tamaki is curled up on the floor across from him, out of sight but never out of mind. His feet brush idly against Kyoya’s crossed ankles under the table, but neither of them pull away from the contact. Kyoya never considered himself a fan of physical affection and he still doesn’t; it’s always been something he’s been more or less indifferent to. Still, be it because of the tender lethargy of winter or his ever-growing soft spot for Tamaki, he finds himself thinking being physically close to someone else can actually be kind of nice.

(Not that he’d ever say so out loud. He doesn’t want to give Tamaki an excuse to leap into his arms at school the way he had when they first met. Being close to him might feel good, but that’s all the more reason for Kyoya not to want to turn it into a spectacle.)

The movie playing on screen is something Kyoya is not particularly interested in. Tamaki chose it; an action film with a slapdash, overtly heterosexual romantic subplot, but it is, at the very least, something to watch. Still, Kyoya can tell that even Tamaki is getting impatient with it, his clothes swishing against Kyoya’s carpet as he shifts restlessly on the floor. 

Suddenly, he emerges, ruffled and sour-faced as he leans against the table with his chin in his hands. He reaches for another mandarin, his clumsy fingers struggling with the peel. Kyoya stretches his arm out expectantly and waits for Tamaki to drop the fruit into his waiting palm. He peels it for him listlessly, not taking his eyes off the screen, and sighs deeply when the protagonist sweeps his love interest off her feet and into a passionate kiss.

Tamaki seems more enthusiastic about the encounter. “Aww,” he cooes, voice dreamy. Kyoya looks over to see him cupping his rosy cheeks in endearment, irritation evidently forgotten. He’s always had an almost annoyingly fast emotional refractory period. “How sweet.”

Kyoya adjusts his glasses. “Hardly,” he says dryly, tearing the rest of the mandarin peel away and handing the fruit back to Tamaki. “They’ve only shared about seven minutes of screentime together. Not exactly enough to warrant a love connection.”

“What about love at first sight?” Tamaki asks innocently, chewing. It’s a very Tamaki question.

“What about it? It’s nonsense,” Kyoya answers simply. “Just an excuse for writers to put no effort into their romantic subplots that they foolishly hope will attract a female audience. Frankly I don’t see the appeal.”

Tamaki kicks him lightly under the table. “The appeal is that it’s nice when two people get together,” he argues, tossing a mandarin wedge at Kyoya’s head. It bounces off the side of his nose and tumbles onto the table. Kyoya, without looking, throws it back at Tamaki and, by the sound of it, manages to make contact. “ _ Ouch _ .”

“Karma.”

“ _ Anyway _ , I always like the romantic scenes the best,” Tamaki goes on. “The music swells, the two protagonists make eye contact across the room, and then…” He squeals and buries his head in his arms over the table, kicking his legs in delight underneath.

Kyoya arches an eyebrow at him. “What?” he asks, somewhat incredulous.

Tamaki lifts his head, a big, goofy grin on his face. “They kiss, of course!” he says brightly. 

Kyoya hums. “Of course,” he echoes dully.

There’s a short pause, but just as Kyoya thinks the conversation over and resigns himself to watching the movie, he hears Tamaki ask,

“Have you ever kissed anyone?”

and his stomach unwittingly does a flip. 

He thinks, for a moment, about lying. Most people his age have had their first kiss already, and also seem to be prone to casting judgement. But Tamaki, he reminds himself, isn’t like that, even if he has almost certainly had his first kiss. Besides, Tamaki is so ridiculous that in theory it should be impossible to feel embarrassed around him. Not to mention the fact that, logically, Kyoya has nothing to be embarrassed about. Right?

“Well, no,” Kyoya admits finally, expression neutral. “The opportunity has never presented itself.” He reaches for his cup of tea, suddenly needing something to occupy himself with.

“I haven’t either,” Tamaki admits wistfully, resting his pink cheek in his hand.

Kyoya blinks, staring at Tamaki wordlessly, eyebrows raised. He lifts his cup of tea to his lips, blowing soft ripples into the dark liquid. 

“What?” Tamaki asks defensively.

“Nothing,” Kyoya says casually, “I just wasn’t expecting that. Given your proclivity for flirting.”

Tamaki groans. “You make everything sound so,” he pauses, struggling to find the words and looking to the ceiling for help, “ _ clinical _ .”

“Well, my family does have a hand in hospital management,” Kyoya supplies, just to be a smartass. 

Tamaki rolls his eyes, laughing. Kyoya smiles around the lip of his cup. “No, but seriously. It just...never happened. I didn’t really go out much back home,” Tamaki explains, and Kyoya makes a mental note that ‘home’ for Tamaki still means France, “and I haven’t met anyone here who I  _ like-like _ either.”

Kyoya hums in acknowledgement, content to let the conversation fizzle. He sips his tea and closes his eyes, warm, rich liquid filling his mouth. It would relax him if it weren’t for the fact that he can feel Tamaki staring at him. He swallows, puts his cup down, and meets Tamaki’s urgent gaze.

“What,” he deadpans.

“I was just thinking,” Tamaki says, gears turning behind his wide eyes.

Kyoya is instinctively apprehensive. “That’s dangerous.”

“Ha-ha. Hear me out.”

Kyoya watches him curiously, noting the way he chews his bottom lip and stares down at what’s left of the mandarin Kyoya peeled for him. “I’m listening,” he says, intrigued.

Tamaki clears his throat. “I was just thinking, since we’re best friends and neither of us has done it before,” he starts, doing his best to appear calm, chin raised, “that the two of us should kiss.”

There’s a beat of silence before, distantly, Kyoya registers the sound of an explosion coming from the TV, computer-generated fire casting the room in flickering orange light. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but the words never come. Not for the first time since the beginning of their friendship, Kyoya wonders if he really understands Tamaki at all.

Them, kissing. 

Them.

_ Kissing. _

Most of Kyoya’s experience with romance comes from listening to Fuyumi info-dump about her favorite shoujo manga or from long-foreshadowed marriage interviews to be arranged by his father; not exactly the kind of adolescent daydream that inspires ballads or sonnets.

Still, as much as he likes to think he is above what he sees as frivolous pursuits like love, he has been, in his own way, curious about it and all that it entails. And, even worse, he has been increasingly aware of a dormant but growing desire to be close to Tamaki. 

And so, in a bold, experimental stroke of hedonism, Kyoya hears himself say, “Alright.”

“But  _ Kyoya _ \- “ Tamaki starts to protest, but cuts himself off as Kyoya’s agreement sinks in. “Wait, you - you - What?” he asks with a short, quizzical shake of his head. Clearly he wasn’t expecting a yes. His cheeks flush red like he’s sick with fever.

Kyoya clears his throat. “I said alright,” he repeats, attempting a casual shrug.

And as Tamaki perks up, a grin breaking out on his lips like dazzling sunlight through parted curtains, Kyoya feels himself burn like the building on-screen.

He watches, unmoving, as Tamaki scooches back over the carpet so his long legs are free from the heated blanket covering them and crawls over to Kyoya’s side of the kotatsu. He sits on his heels and reaches over to tug on Kyoya’s hand. Kyoya faces him, body humming like bees live under his skin. He feels everything and nothing all at once. Faintly, he registers Tamaki suggesting a countdown and feels his head nod in agreement all on its own.

“One,” Tamaki whispers, slowly beginning to lean in.

“Two,” Kyoya continues, feeling himself being pulled into Tamaki’s orbit.

Their eyes fall shut, their fingers clench, and their lips touch before they get to three.

Kyoya knows better than to expect fireworks or starbursts. He knows better than to think he’ll find enlightenment in Tamaki’s mouth. He knows better than to feel his heart expand in his chest and squeeze tight against the confines of his ribcage.

He knows better, and he lets it all happen anyway.

Tamaki’s lips are soft and plump like mandarin wedges, sweet from tea and so unbelievably warm that Kyoya’s normally unbreakable concentration frays at the edges, becoming white noise buzzing in the background of his consciousness. His breath gets trapped in his lungs. His fingers grip Tamaki’s hand so hard that they ache. His eyes are screwed shut so tightly that he wonders if he will ever manage to pry them open again.

Until now, he had always assumed kissing was like shaking someone’s hand, needing to make sense of the foreign concept by comparing to something familiar, misguided though he was. He had shaken many hands before. He knew what it felt like to touch another person. Since kissing couldn’t be  _ that _ different, it was impossible for him to be missing out. It was impossible for him not to understand.

Like a handshake, he had thought.  _ Like a goddamn handshake. _

But somehow, as he surrenders himself to the warmth of Tamaki’s lips on his, he can’t be bitter about the fact that he was wrong.

Tamaki seems to have a better idea of what he’s doing than Kyoya does, tipping his head further to the side and parting his lips so that Kyoya’s bottom one fits between them snugly. Kyoya feels suction, a hint of teeth, and vaguely faint from lack of oxygen. 

Lungs aching, he wrenches his sweaty hand out of Tamaki’s grip, claps him on the shoulders, and straightens his arms with an abrupt snap of his elbows, pushing Tamaki away. Their lips disconnect with a loud, wet  _ click _ . 

Kyoya pants loudly, grabbing fistfuls of Tamaki’s shirt to keep himself steady, face numb with heat. He looks up to find Tamaki staring at him in confusion and disappointment, red-faced but still insultingly composed.

“What?” he asks, brows knitted, until surprise washes over his features. “Wait, you weren’t breathing?”

Kyoya feels like he’s been put on the spot. “I didn’t even think about it,” he admits breathlessly, suddenly miserable.

He hears Tamaki snort a laugh and snaps his head up with a vicious glare. Tamaki smacks his palm over his mouth with one hand and waves dismissively with the other. Kyoya sighs, releasing Tamaki’s shirt and crossing his arms. Tamaki clears his throat and sniffs, trying to get a hold of himself.

“We’ll work on it next time,” he giggles good-naturedly. Part of Kyoya wants to comment on the presumption that there would even  _ be  _ a next time; wants to say that there won’t be, the words sitting heavy on the back of his tongue. 

And yet when Kyoya imagines himself actually saying them, something in his stomach twists the same way it used to when he’d fake a smile to one of his classmates for the millionth time in a day. It’s like the phantom twinge of a long-forgotten injury; that lingering feeling of  _ wrongness _ that he once felt like he’d never be able to shake.

_ Being close to Tamaki feels good _ , he thinks, for once unchecked.  _ Kissing Tamaki feels good. _

“If you insist,” he says, and wonders what he’s getting himself into.


	2. Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tamaki looks unconvinced, removing his hand from Kyoya’s cheek only to dig his knuckle into it a moment later. “You’d think someone whose family deals with hospital management,” he says, applying more pressure to Kyoya’s cheek, “would take better care of himself when he’s sick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's...this one's real gay, lads.

Next time happens in the prep room of the newly established Ouran host club. It is spring now, baby-pink cherry blossom petals waltzing in the gentle breeze outside as the club members perform their own kind of dances inside, each still a little clumsy as they try to get the hang of hosting. Still, word about Tamaki’s surprising suaveness and sparkling eyes has spread all throughout the high school, enticing clients to peek into the newly repurposed music room #3 in curiosity. 

Tamaki guides them inside with a hand on their backs and a rose between his teeth, waxing poetic about the flowers in bloom, and he gets them all hook, line, and sinker.

Haninozuka-senpai and Morinozuka-senpai aren’t bad, either, their dynamic charming in its own way, and while the Hitachiin twins are still struggling with the brotherly love act - and with Tamaki - they still smile whenever a guest requests them.

Even Kyoya, against all odds, is good at this. It surprises even himself, at first, how easy it is to lean in close and whisper low; to smile and call a girl two years his senior “princess.” It all means very little to him right now, but, for whatever reason, it means the world to Tamaki. That’s enough for Kyoya to want to play along and see where it goes.

Tamaki watches him sweet talk his current client, Kyoya’s long fingers flirting along the soft curve of her jaw and stopping to tickle under her chin, and beams with an intensity that borders on inappropriate. After a few more hushed compliments and the promise of a future meeting, Kyoya bids the girl farewell. She scrambles to her feet red-faced and trembling happily, leaving music room #3 in a daze. Another satisfied customer. 

“Kyoya!” Tamaki laughs, jogging up to him with pride shining in his eyes, “That was brilliant! I didn't expect you to get so into it.”

Kyoya smooths wrinkles in the front of his jacket, standing up. Tamaki snickers and nudges him in the ribs with his elbow.

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m  _ into _ it,” Kyoya says thoughtfully, softly batting Tamaki’s arm away, “at least, not in the way you’re imagining. If nothing else, it’s entertaining.”

Tamaki pouts. “Boooo. I take it back, your attitude sucks.”

Kyoya smiles easily, eyes closing. “Well, the young lady I was just with didn’t seem to think so,” he points out. He almost never says the word ‘girl’ anymore - only  _ lady _ or  _ princess _ or  _ mademoiselle _ . 

“I guess you’re right,” Tamaki sighs, managing to perk up a bit. “All that matters is that the ladies leave happy. Good work, mommy-dear!”

Kyoya’s expression sours. “I don’t care about club hierarchy, I am  _ not  _ calling you daddy,” he warns. Tamaki laughs brightly, clapping him on the shoulder and drawing him in close. The side of Kyoya’s head bumps against Tamaki’s, skewing his glasses. He reaches up to readjust them.

Tamaki rubs his cheek against Kyoya’s, giggling. “I think this club is going to be a success!” he announces proudly.

“Time will tell,” Kyoya muses, though, silently, he agrees.

The last clients of the day filter out of the clubroom within the hour. Haninozuka-senpai and Morinozuka-senpai are tasked with collecting dishes and sweeping up cake crumbs; the twins are pretending to look busy as they slowly inch toward the door. Tamaki drags Kyoya into the prep room - essentially a glorified walk-in closet - to figure out themes and costumes for the rest of the week. The theater club has been generous enough to let them borrow any props and outfits they don’t need for their upcoming production until the host club has made enough revenue to buy their own. Tamaki’s father, despite having a seemingly hereditary flair for the dramatic, is reluctant to let his son dip into his trust fund for a club that is barely a few weeks old.

Tamaki sifts through a rack of Victorian-style dresses, elbow-deep in lace and frills with his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Kyoya has a clipboard and pen in hand, taking inventory and jotting down possible theme ideas. He has to squint, the lighting in the room weak.

Tamaki grins suddenly, glancing at Kyoya over his shoulder, and produces a ruched French maid outfit, wiggling his eyebrows mischievously.

“I think this would look good on you, Kyoya,” he says, barely containing his laughter and hiding his face behind the dress.

Kyoya examines it for a moment, stone-faced, before redirecting his attention to his clipboard.  _ French maid costume (1). Condition: good. Utility: none, unless cross-dressing would attract clients. Further research required. Possible alternative: Butler café. _

“Kyoya, are you even paying attention to me?” Tamaki demands. Kyoya can hear the pout in his voice.

He slowly slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “If I paid attention to you all the time, I’d never know a moment’s peace. I need to tune you out to maintain my sanity.”

A row of long, elegant fingers suddenly grips the top of Kyoya’s clipboard and pushes it down and out of sight. Kyoya jerks his head up just in time to see Tamaki surge forward and stumbles in shock until his back hits the nearest wall, his eyes squeezing shut as he braces himself. His clipboard and pen slip through his fingers and clatter to the floor. Tamaki is close enough for Kyoya’s head to swim in the flowery scent of his cologne (Perfume?); for their noses to brush and Tamaki’s soft hair to tickle his forehead. Slowly, his eyes open.

Tamaki’s are half-lidded, glinting almost violet in the dim light. He smirks, lifting a single finger to trace Kyoya’s jaw bone until he reaches his chin and tilts it up. 

“Not so easy to tune me out now, hm?” he teases lowly.

Kyoya blinks, processing, before his face retreats into impassivity. “I am not one of your clients,” he reminds Tamaki.

Tamaki laughs quietly, looking more like himself now, bashful and silly instead of the suave and confident facade he shows to guests. Kyoya stops holding his breath.

“Of course not,” Tamaki chuckles softly, still so close. He bites his bottom lip, smiling almost shyly. “Hey, Kyoya?”

His tone is timid; vulnerable. Kyoya doesn’t have the stomach for it. 

“What?” he asks quietly, trying to sound impatient and not quite succeeding. He wants to cross his arms, but doesn’t have enough room; there is but a sliver of space between him and Tamaki right now. They may be in a glorified closet, but it is more than big enough for them to stand at least at an arm’s length away.

And yet.

“Should we give it another shot?” Tamaki asks demurely.

Kyoya forces himself to face him head on, staring directly into his big blue eyes. He feigns ignorance, asking, “Give what another shot?” if only to see Tamaki squirm; it makes him feel better about the sweat gathering in his palms.

Tamaki frowns in disappointment, cheeks reddening. “C’mon, Kyoya, surely you haven’t forgotten kissing me  _ already _ ?” he urges, brushing his thumb along Kyoya’s jaw, not to be outdone so easily.

Kyoya deliberately does not shiver. “I may have a vague recollection,” he says slowly, glancing up at Tamaki nonchalantly just before Tamaki leans in and closes the tiny gap between their lips.

A familiar rush of warmth floods Kyoya and makes him grip the front of Tamaki’s jacket, whether to push him away or pull him closer he hasn’t quite decided yet. Tamaki makes a small noise of realization in the back of his throat and retreats just enough to say, “Ah, remember to breathe this time, okay?” His tone is one of genuine concern, which is all the more irritating.

Kyoya swallows, biting the inside of his cheek. “Just get on with it, you moron,” he whispers and, this time, meets Tamaki half way.

Tamaki doesn’t wait as long to take the lead as he did last time, coaxing Kyoya’s lips apart with his tongue. Kyoya’s heart rate quickens, but his curiosity at the foreign sensation outweighs his anxiety. He feels Tamaki’s tongue rub against his, soft and hot like the milk tea they serve their guests. He tastes like buttercream frosting and strawberries, and while Kyoya doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, he finds himself licking eagerly into Tamaki’s mouth. He reminds himself to breathe and lets out a deep sigh through his nose, happy to eliminate at least one reason to stop kissing Tamaki.

He feels Tamaki’s hands on the sides of his neck, gentle fingers resting over his racing pulse, and tells himself he’s allowed to wind Tamaki’s tie around his hand and pull him even closer. Tamaki makes an intriguing little noise of surprise; one that Kyoya, were he not so busy, would be sure to catalogue in his little black notebook. He pushes his chin forward, feeling encouraged, and experimentally nips at Tamaki’s bottom lip only to smooth over it with his tongue. He feels Tamaki’s lips gradually dissolve into a smile, bringing the kiss to a slow and satisfying end. Kyoya exhales softly, leaning his head back against the wall, eyes still closed. For a moment, they stay like that; Tamaki’s palms still cupping Kyoya’s pulse, Kyoya’s fingers clenched around the silk of Tamaki’s tie - just breathing softly in the comforting low light of the prep room.

After a while, Tamaki stirs, hands sliding down Kyoya’s neck to grip his shoulders. “So?” he asks, and Kyoya can hear the grin in his voice, “What do you think? It was better than last time, right? I thought it was.”

Kyoya wonders briefly if verbal evaluations are standard procedure after kissing. He pops one eye open, fixing Tamaki with an assessing gaze. Tamaki is practically trembling, rosy cheeks spread by an eager grin. He looks not unlike an over-enthusiastic golden retriever puppy and the image Kyoya’s mind conjures at the thought, of Tamaki with a blond, rapidly-wagging tail, makes him snort in amusement.

Tamaki’s face falls, seeming to jump to the wrong conclusion. “Was I no good?” he asks, deflating in disappointment.

Kyoya sighs. While Tamaki’s insecurity is comforting in a way, it is completely unwarranted. He unravels Tamaki’s tie from around his hand and tucks it back into his jacket, pushing up the knot to tighten it, before bending down and picking his clipboard and pen up off the floor. He uses the former to lightly hit Tamaki on his dumb, blond head.

Tamaki winces slightly and blinks at him in confusion.

“You were  _ fine _ , you big goof,” Kyoya says, smiling and rolling his eyes. He tucks his clipboard under his arm, clicks his pen, and leaves Tamaki to sputter in the darkness of the prep room.

  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  


By April, the host club has made a rather impressive name for itself as, in Tamaki’s words, ‘Ouran Academy’s elegant playground for the super rich and beautiful;’ a celebration of extravagance and charm.

Because of this, Kyoya has been busy planning events and managing budgets on top of doing school work every day for the past few months.

It is therefore out of the question for him to stay home from school when on one fine late Spring morning he wakes up with a cold. The feverish, throat-itching, nose-running kind.

He may be a prodigy, but the thought of potentially missing material covered in class still makes him antsy; not to mention the thought of what his father might have to say about him skipping school. A simple cold hardly warrants such drastic measures, after all. Besides, with the host club flourishing, Kyoya has little time to play academic catch-up. 

As a result, he wraps a scarf around his neck, slips a pack of tissues into his jacket pocket, and goes to school. He stumbles six times on his way to class (Or was it five? Or seven? He can’t quite remember) and, when he makes it to his desk, collapses into his seat. 

But that doesn’t prove anything. It’s early in the morning and he’s tired. That’s all. 

“Kyooooyaaaa!” he hears a familiar voice cheer as its owner flops down into the seat in front of him, chair creaking. His groggy eyes look up.

It’s Tamaki in all his morning glory, grinning in a way that only someone who can still breathe out of both nostrils can. Bastard.

“Good morning,” Kyoya says hoarsely, oddly pleased when Tamaki drops his smile at the sound of his rough voice.

“Kyoya, you sound awful,” Tamaki observes, brow furrowing in concern. He leans over the back of his chair, reaching a hand out to brush Kyoya’s sweaty bangs out of his face. “You look awful, too. You should go home.”

“I’m already here,” Kyoya sighs, closing his crusty eyes and, because Tamaki is far too dense to catch on to the significance of things that aren’t spelled out for him, leans into his touch; lets himself indulge in the gentle coolness of Tamaki’s fingertips. “It doesn’t make sense to just leave.”

“Why didn’t you stay in bed?” Tamaki asks, pressing his palm to Kyoya’s forehead and adding, “Oh, Kyoya, you’re  _ burning up! _ ” in a horrified gasp. He pulls his hand away after a moment, cupping Kyoya’s cheek instead. “Let me take you to the nurse.”

Kyoya’s eyes don’t open so much as unstick, but he still manages a weak glare. “Out of the question,” he says firmly, his serious tone undercut by the sniffle that succeeds it. “I am perfectly capable of attending class as usual.”

Tamaki looks unconvinced, removing his hand from Kyoya’s cheek only to dig his knuckle into it a moment later. “You’d think someone whose family deals with  _ hospital management _ ,” he says, applying more pressure to Kyoya’s cheek, “would take better care of himself when he’s sick.”

Kyoya sniffs. “I’m not that sick,” he says, and even he is unconvinced.

Tamaki’s hand softens against Kyoya’s cheek, but his eyes are firm. “Well, one thing’s for sure,” he says, “You are absolutely forbidden from participating in club activities until you get better. I’ll handle all the planning and budgeting, so just send me the files you have on your computer, alright? I’ll take care of everything.”

Kyoya deflates without meaning to, resting his chin in his hand and sighing dejectedly. He doesn’t like the idea of someone doing his work for him, even if it’s extracurricular, but Tamaki is stubborn and seems to have made up his mind. It seems Kyoya has only one choice.

“I will go to the nurse,” he relents slowly, watching Tamaki immediately perk up, “but there will be some conditions.”

Tamaki nods eagerly, finally taking his hand away from Kyoya’s face and crossing his arms over his desk, smiling encouragingly.

“Number one, you are to take diligent notes on anything and everything I miss in my absence,” he states. Tamaki nods again in acknowledgement, silently urging him to continue. “Number two, you are  _ not _ to overshoot our budget. I’ll send you all the files later - stick to the spreadsheet I have set up.” Another nod. Kyoya coughs quietly.

“Number three,” he begins again, tugging on the sleeve of Tamaki’s jacket, “Help me get up.”

Tamaki blinks before laughter bubbles out of him and makes his shoulders shake. “That goes without saying, silly,” he says, standing and reaching out a hand. “C’mon.” 

Kyoya takes it and is pulled up out of his chair. He wobbles for a moment before Tamaki loops an arm around his back to keep him steady. He offers a quick explanation to their homeroom teacher as they make their way out the door.

The nurse sits Kyoya down on one of the beds in the infirmary the moment she sees him. It’s at the very back of the room, flanked by a window on one side and a curtain on the other. Tamaki stands by his side, absently rubbing Kyoya’s shoulder while the nurse shoves a thermometer under his tongue, and gasps when she announces his temperature - “39.4.”

“ _ Kyoya _ ,” Tamaki says urgently, the hand on Kyoya’s shoulder sliding up into his black hair and smoothing over it in concern. If Kyoya were in the right state of mind, he might not let Tamaki touch him the way he is - at least not in front of the nurse - but as things are he simply can’t bring himself to shake him off. “Kyoya, go  _ home _ .”

“Your friend is right, Ootori-kun,” the nurse says firmly, disappearing back toward the front of the room, out of sight because of the curtain. Kyoya hears a cabinet being opened and rummaged through before she comes back into view with an ice pack in hand. “Stay here until someone comes to pick you up. Here, put this on your forehead.” She hands the ice pack to Kyoya and he takes it with trembling hands.

“I’ll call your sister and have her send a car,” Tamaki assures him, long fingers running through Kyoya’s hair. Kyoya doesn’t answer, silently removing his glasses and pressing the ice pack against his burning forehead. He sighs shakily. “Thank you, Miss,” he hears Tamaki say.

“No problem. You can stay with him for a bit if you like, but you should head back to class soon, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kyoya listens to the nurse’s heels click against the linoleum floor as she walks back across the room. Tamaki’s careful fingers leave his hair, making him pry his heavy eyelids open. He watches Tamaki type Fuyumi’s number into his phone and wait for her to pick up, leaning against the window with that rare, serious look on his face, backlit by the mid-morning sun. It’s easy to forget that Tamaki isn’t just some vapid trust-fund kid with a big ego and a bigger mouth, and every reminder rocks Kyoya to his core. 

He looks away, lying down on the stiff mattress and setting his glasses down next to the pillow under his aching head. He closes his eyes and pats down his face with his ice pack until he hears Tamaki click his phone shut and walk over to the bed. He sits down by Kyoya’s side, leaning over him and pressing the backs of his fingers against Kyoya’s warm cheek.

“Your sister said someone would be here to pick you up in half an hour,” he says quietly, brushing Kyoya’s damp bangs out of his forehead. Kyoya reaches the realization then that Tamaki has been unusually handsy with him today, always touching his face or his hair, and is immediately hit with another - that he likes it. Fever and fondness make his head spin.

“Thank you,” he rasps. His throat feels raw; like he’s swallowed salt and sand. He clears it, which only seems to make it worse. “You should go back to class.”

Tamaki frowns down at him, still applying gentle, fluttering touches to Kyoya’s face - a stroke of his thumb over his cheekbone, a sweep of his knuckles along his jaw. It makes Kyoya want to squirm. It’s both too much and not enough.

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Tamaki says, tracing the arch of Kyoya’s eyebrow before his fingers curl and tuck some of his hair behind his ear. Kyoya visibly shivers and silently curses himself for it.

“I’ll be going home in half an hour anyway,” he argues, but his mouth falls shut when Tamaki runs a finger along the bow of his chapped lips. His eyelids flutter in surprise. “Stop that,” he mumbles, weakly grabbing Tamaki by the wrist. He doesn’t want Tamaki to get sick, too.

Tamaki’s fingers leave Kyoya’s lips only to fit between the gaps of Kyoya’s own. He squeezes tight. If Kyoya had the strength, he might squeeze back. Tamaki brings their linked hands up to his chest, the back of Kyoya’s trembling one resting right over his heart. He looks down at Kyoya, worry creasing his brow.

“How do you feel?” he asks, voice gentle. His free hand slips into Kyoya’s hair, softly rubbing his scalp. “Does your head hurt? Do you need anything? Are you sad? I always get sad when I’m sick.”

Kyoya frowns. “I’m not sad,” he says, just a little too quickly. He looks off to the side and bites the inside of his cheek.

“Frustrated?” Tamaki offers sympathetically, hitting a little closer to home. Kyoya sighs roughly.

“It’s just ridiculous,” he mutters, “that I… I can’t afford to miss class.” He pauses, looking up at Tamaki sternly. “And neither can you. You should go.”

Tamaki squeezes his hand and leans down, resting his forehead next to Kyoya on the pillow and sighing deeply. Kyoya stiffens, remembering the last time they were this close; remembering being backed up against the wall of the prep room; remembering Tamaki’s finger gently tilting his chin up; remembering the way it felt to chase the flick of Tamaki’s tongue.

“Just let me stay until you get picked up,” Tamaki says, right by Kyoya’s ear. “I’ll have to get by without you for the rest of the day; just let me have a few minutes.”

Kyoya lets out a shuddering breath against Tamaki’s shoulder, closing his eyes as his heart thunders in his chest. It occurs to him that this is the first time since they’ve known each other that one of them has gotten sick. He tries to imagine what it would feel like if Tamaki had to miss a day of school; how he’d have no one to chat with before class or at lunch. He wonders if the dread pooling in his stomach at the thought is what Tamaki feels right now.

Tamaki is the absolute worst thing for Kyoya’s health, making his skin prickle and his head spin, and yet Kyoya doesn’t actually want him to leave.

“You’re a moron,” he mutters. 

Tamaki chuckles, sitting up just enough so he’s no longer half on top of Kyoya, but instead hovering over him, their foreheads touching. Kyoya watches Tamaki’s smile fade, not in sadness but in thought, and his eyes scan over Kyoya’s face before settling somewhere under his nose. Tamaki licks his lips. 

There’s a beat of silence before Kyoya firmly says, “No,” recognizing Tamaki’s intentions. “You’ll get sick.”

Tamaki pouts. “I probably wouldn’t,” he argues, “I have a pretty strong immune system.”

A part of Kyoya wants to joke that,  _ Ah, yes, they say idiots don’t catch colds, I forgot _ , but instead just shoots him an incredulous look. “Absolutely out of the question, Tamaki,” he hisses quietly, realizing the nurse might be able to hear them and blushing from more than just his fever. “Use your head.”

“Then how about this,” Tamaki whispers, pushes Kyoya’s bangs aside, and presses his lips to Kyoya’s forehead. Kyoya’s breath hitches, his sweaty hand squeezing Tamaki’s as he tenses in surprise.

Tamaki’s soft lips linger for a long moment, cool against Kyoya’s hot skin, until he pulls away with a quiet  _ mwah _ . By the time Tamaki leans back enough for him to see Kyoya’s face, Kyoya has mustered a weak glare.

Tamaki puts his free hand over his heart, cooing with a sympathetic smile on his face. “Aww, Kyoya, you’re adorable,” he says dotingly, voice syrupy sweet. “So bashful, so cute.”

“Shut  _ up _ , you idiot, the nurse is going to hear you,” Kyoya hisses, gathering all of his strength and using it to crush Tamaki’s hand in his.

Tamaki lets out a pained laugh, fingers squirming in Kyoya’s vice-like grip. “She won’t hear if you’re quiet. C’mon, Kyoya, let daddy take care of - “

“You’re insane,” Kyoya says, enlightened. “You are actually, clinically - “

Tamaki keeps laughing, cheeks pleasantly rosy, whereas Kyoya feels like his skin is going to melt off. They hear the nurse clear her throat tightly from across the room and Tamaki smothers his giggles under his palm.

“ _ You’re _ the one who needs to be quiet,” Kyoya whispers hotly.

“Kyoya,  _ relax _ ,” Tamaki replies, rolling his eyes without a care in the world, completely okay with the fact that, at some point, the nurse is going to wonder exactly what is going on back there. “Close your eyes.”

Kyoya eyebrows screw together and his lips twist. “N-No,” he stammers quietly and flushes even hotter because of it - he has never been one to stammer, but between his fever and Tamaki, he suddenly has little control over what comes out of his mouth. “You’ll get sick if we - “

“It won’t be on the lips,” Tamaki interrupts, voice almost silent against the shell of Kyoya’s ear. He huffs. “I know things are weird at your house. You’ll get medicine and rest, sure, but who’s going to spoil you?”

“I don’t want to be spoiled,” Kyoya answers feebly, though part of him wonders if it’s really true.

Tamaki, because he’s impulsive and an idiot and intent on driving Kyoya insane, gently bites down on Kyoya’s earlobe. Kyoya sucks in a harsh breath, going stiff as a board against the mattress. This is it, this is how he dies. Not from illness, not from old age, but from Tamaki’s invasive mouth.

“Maybe you need it, though,” Tamaki murmurs, smooth voice pouring silk into Kyoya’s ear. Kyoya feels the bizarre urge to rip it off.

Slowly, Tamaki sits up, smiling down at Kyoya fondly, as if biting someone’s ear out of the blue is normal. “I remember when I’d get sick, my mom would stay with me the whoooole time. Even if she was sick, too.” He turns to look out the window, sunlight dancing in his faraway eyes. “She’d sing to me and rub my back and kiss me on the head… Being sick always feels kind of lonely, but she made it less so.”

Kyoya has to squint to see Tamaki clearly, not wearing his glasses, and the wistful look on his face makes Kyoya’s heart pinch. He wonders what happens when Tamaki gets sick now -  he has a hard time imagining Tamaki’s father being so affectionate - and then he wonders if his own parents have been holding out on him. Come to think of it, it was almost always one of the maids who would check up on him when he was sick, even as a child - aside from the few times Fuyumi was around to do it. 

The idea of being spoiled or coddled or taken care of never particularly appealed to him; he prefers to struggle and to win, in all aspects of his life. He can think of nothing more fun.

But he supposes he’s not so stubborn as to assume that he can get over a fever by sheer force of will. Surely if it was Tamaki who was sick, Kyoya would be telling him to go home and get rest, too. He might not be as handsy about it, but… 

Well, maybe Tamaki is on to something. 

Or maybe Kyoya’s fever has made him delusional.

Kyoya lets out a long sigh, ignoring the goosebumps rising over his skin, and says, “Fine. You win.”

Tamaki’s gaze flicks back down to meet Kyoya’s, his brows arched in surprise.

Kyoya shrugs, looks straight up at the ceiling, and mouths,  _ Spoil me. _

He hears Tamaki let out a quiet puff of laughter before one of his hands splays out on the mattress next to Kyoya’s head, the other still tangled with Kyoya’s. Kyoya closes his eyes, heart thumping in anticipation, eyebrow twitching impatiently. His shaking hand squeezes Tamaki’s, suddenly needing him to be close.

He feels Tamaki’s lips on his cheek first, just under his eye, smooth and warm like rose petals soaked in sunlight. He sighs in something like relief, his free hand blindly reaching up to weakly hook his fingers around the knot of Tamaki’s tie.

Tamaki’s lips don’t make a sound when they separate from Kyoya’s skin this time, neither of them wanting to attract the nurse’s attention again. He’s quick to give Kyoya another kiss, this time on his temple. One on the corner of his jaw, one on the side of his nose. Another between his eyes and then another on his chin.

It feels nice. It feels so  _ nice _ , being close to another person. Being close to Tamaki. And yet something about it hurts. 

They both know what this is. They’re best friends; two curious kids who had each other when they didn’t have anybody else, and it’s fun to experiment, to kiss. But the analytical part of Kyoya’s mind, the part that makes him  _ him _ , wonders how long it will take before this gets away from them.

It’s easy for the thought to dissolve in the warmth of Tamaki’s lips; it’s a distant, slippery concern that Kyoya is eager to push to the back of his mind for as long as possible. 

Tamaki lifts his hand off the mattress and brings it up to Kyoya’s face, stroking his fingers down his cheek as he sits up. Kyoya cracks his eyes open and watches Tamaki raise their linked hands to his mouth and kiss Kyoya’s knuckles. 

“Relaxed?” Tamaki murmurs against his fingers, a sweet smile curling his lips. 

“Mm,” Kyoya grunts, content. He shuts his eyes once more, concentrating on Tamaki’s curious fingertips tracing his features and the warm kisses he presses to the center of his palm.

Kyoya’s throat is still scratchy, his skin is still on fire, and his head is still throbbing, but he feels oddly satisfied. In the safety of his own mind, he allows himself to admit that it’s kind of nice to be doted on. For the first time he truly understands the appeal of visiting the host club, despite being its co-founder.

Tamaki’s fingers sift through Kyoya’s bangs before his palm smooths over the skin underneath. He tuts softly. “You’re still so hot,” he mumbles, clearly still worried.

Straight-faced, Kyoya replies, “Well, there’s a reason I’m a member of the host club.”

Tamaki snorts charmingly, guiding Kyoya’s palm to rest over his cheek, holding it there with his own hand. “Your fever gave you a sense of humor. Tin man has a heart, it’s a miracle.”

“And all it took was a microorganism mutating enough to infect my bloodstream,” he muses hoarsely.

“Aaaand there it goes.”

Kyoya allows himself a tiny smile, sweeping his thumb over Tamaki’s cheek. Tamaki turns, his mouth tucking back into Kyoya’s palm, and grins against the lines of it.

Dizzy from both affliction and affection, Kyoya almost curls his hand shut, as if he could grab Tamaki’s smile and hold onto it like a good luck charm.


	3. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They breach the surface again barely a second later, gasping for air. Kyoya shivers violently, teeth chattering as he watches Tamaki laugh in pure joy, the strands of light being reflected by the water’s surface dancing across the skin of his face as he wades idly.
> 
> It’s difficult for Kyoya to stay mad, no matter how hard he tries, with Tamaki looking so happy. Still, he’s not quite dazzling enough to stop Kyoya from reaching out a hand and dunking his head under water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things just keep getting gayer and gayer

For their Summer vacation, Tamaki insists that Kyoya take him back to his family’s private beach in Okinawa. Kyoya agrees, having planned on spending the Summer with Tamaki anyway, no matter where, and is rewarded (Punished? Tortured?) with a wet kiss on his cheek.

Over the past month, Tamaki has become more generous with his displays of affection, provided no one is around to witness them. 

Whenever he comes over now, he greets Kyoya with chaste kisses on both cheeks, calling it  _ faire la bise _ in flawless, flowing french, though Kyoya just calls it  _ embarrassing _ . 

When they settle down in Kyoya’s room, they do so on the same side of the table now, often holding hands underneath.

Most interestingly, Tamaki will even give Kyoya an occasional peck on the lips or forehead or nose or wherever he can reach, and when Kyoya asks,  _ What was that for? _ , Tamaki shrugs and says,  _ I just wanted to. _

It makes Kyoya’s stomach churn and his cheeks turn red. It is horribly, agonizingly lovely.

And spending a week together, just the two of them, bathing in glittering sun and surf, is even more so.

“Kyoya!” Tamaki laughs, pushing the book in Kyoya’s hand aside and revealing his dripping golden hair and bright grin. “Come in the water with me!”

Kyoya sets his book down next to him on his beach towel so Tamaki doesn’t drip on it, leisurely stretching his long limbs in the partial sunlight beaming down that his umbrella doesn’t shield him from. He tucks one arm behind his head, the other reaching out to brush sand off the side of Tamaki’s damp face.

He’s been frolicking in the shallows for the past hour, diving through the waves and repeatedly calling out,  _ Kyoya, did you see that?! _ like a child preening for attention. Meanwhile Kyoya has been sending him idle thumbs-ups in response, but he supposes he knew that wouldn’t be enough to pacify Tamaki forever.

“It looks cold,” Kyoya says, lifting his head to peek at the summer-blue water, “and far.”

Predictably, Tamaki whines. “Did you come all the way to Okinawa just to  _ read _ ? Spend time with me!” he demands, tugging on the collar of Kyoya’s shirt.

“I didn’t realize you were so needy,” Kyoya says with a grunt, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

Tamaki cheers, pumping his fists in the air triumphantly. Kyoya pulls his shirt off over his head, skewing his glasses in the process, and readjusts them once his arms are free. He shivers slightly from the ocean breeze washing over his newly bare torso, and looks at Tamaki.

He takes off and folds his glasses. “What?” he asks curiously, noticing the skittish way Tamaki’s eyes dart from Kyoya’s face to his rumpled shirt to his abandoned book.

“Nothing!” Tamaki laughs in a way that clearly suggests  _ something _ , though Kyoya doesn’t have time to figure out what, because he’s being yanked up by the arm and pulled toward the water.

He doesn’t even get the chance to adjust to the temperature; Tamaki wraps his clammy arms around him and jumps right in. They plunge beneath the surface together, waves crashing around them, and underneath it all Kyoya can hear Tamaki’s bubbly giggles vibrating through the water.

They breach the surface again barely a second later, gasping for air. Kyoya shivers violently, teeth chattering as he watches Tamaki laugh in pure joy, the strands of light being reflected by the water’s surface dancing across the skin of his face as he wades idly.

It’s difficult for Kyoya to stay mad, no matter how hard he tries, with Tamaki looking so happy. Still, he’s not  _ quite _ dazzling enough to stop Kyoya from reaching out a hand and dunking his head under water.

Tamaki’s arms thrash and flail as he blubbers helplessly, but when Kyoya finally lets him back up for air, he’s laughing uncontrollably, completely out of breath. It makes Kyoya smile.

They take turns wrestling each other under the water, kicking and screaming in delight, and now Kyoya is willing to admit that firstly, Tamaki isn’t the only one behaving like a child, and that secondly, doing so is ridiculously fun.

When the sun finally dips into the sea, tinting it orange like a drop of watercolor to paper, the boys decide that they’ve swallowed enough sea salt and put each other in enough headlocks for one day. They drag themselves to shore and collapse in the wet sand, chests heaving. The water licks up the beach and floods their ankles, but they don’t move, content to bask in the dying sun right where they are. Seagulls squeal and flutter distantly in the darkening sky, accompanied by the sound of softly rolling waves. All is right with the world.

Tamaki, as always, is the first to break the silence with a breathless chuckle. “That was fun,” he pants as Kyoya opens his eyes. Tamaki is flat on his stomach, his red cheek pressed against the dark sand, drenched golden hair curling against the side of his smiling face. Even in the fading light, Kyoya can make out the hint of a sunburn branding his shoulders and the back of his neck - the price of soaking up the daylight - and somehow thinks that it makes him all the more beautiful. 

Wordlessly, Kyoya crawls closer, being pulled into Tamaki’s orbit by some unseen, inevitable force like gravity or time or something mankind has yet to discover, and places his hand on Tamaki’s shoulder. Tamaki watches him questioningly, quiet but for the sound of his labored breathing, and lets Kyoya roll him onto his back and pin him against the cold sand. Kyoya’s hand lingers for a moment before smoothing a path to Tamaki’s collarbone, slowly sweeping his palm over his sticky skin. He watches the rise and fall of Tamaki’s flushed chest and places his hand over his heart next, feeling it beat fast and hard like it might leap out for Kyoya to catch. 

His eyes flit up to Tamaki’s softly panting mouth and his fingers follow, still humming with the echo of Tamaki’s heartbeat as he runs his thumb along his bottom lip; gently, the same way you’d touch a butterfly’s wing if it didn’t mean breaking it. The rest of his fingers splay out over the side of Tamaki’s face, feeling his blush seep into the tips.

Tamaki is nervous, Kyoya realizes. His eyes are wide, his lips are parted under Kyoya’s thumb, his skin is flushed all over. They’re both breathing hard, audible over the sound of waves lapping at the beach and the salty breeze rustling the palms further inland, and Kyoya wonders if it’s from lingering exhaustion or something else. Slowly, Kyoya’s wrist twists, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly against the bone of Tamaki’s jaw, his fingers curled under his delicate chin. Tamaki lets his face be tilted up towards the sky, towards Kyoya, and Kyoya leans down to meet him.

The kiss is a chaste, fluttery thing; heartbreakingly gentle in a way that Kyoya can’t bear to keep up for as long as he’d like to. It’s so soft and barely there and it undoes him completely; not enough but entirely too much. His cheeks flare with heat and he needs to pull away, just far enough for their lips to unstick but close enough that the cold tips of their noses brush. Kyoya opens his eyes.

Tamaki blinks up at him, eyes shining and body trembling underneath Kyoya’s like a leaf in the wind. He raises a shaking hand to his face, reverent fingers lightly touching his quivering lips. He looks like he could cry.

Kyoya frowns, confused. “What?” he asks firmly.

“That’s the first time you’ve initiated anything,” Tamaki whispers in awe, looking at Kyoya like he just gave him the world and not just a little kiss.

Kyoya sighs softly, regarding Tamaki with knitted brows.  _ What am I going to do with you? _ he asks himself silently, but he doesn’t wonder for long. Tamaki gathers Kyoya’s face in his hands and slowly pulls him back in.

Kyoya lets out a shuddering breath through his nose as Tamaki guides his head down, melting against him in relief when their lips touch once more. Tamaki angles his head, Kyoya parts his lips, and everything seems to fall into place.

He cups the sides of Tamaki’s perfect face, needing him to stay right where he is - tucked underneath Kyoya and slowly kissing him into sweet oblivion. Tamaki’s hands trickle south, fanning across Kyoya’s shoulders; gliding over his arms; squeezing his sides and hips before flying back up into Kyoya’s inky black hair, fingers curling around the wet strands.

Kyoya wonders how he ever managed to be friends with Tamaki and  _ not  _ want to kiss him. He smells like sand and sunscreen, tastes like salt and sunset soda, feels like a hot Summer day well spent. Kyoya could spend the rest of his life right here on the beach, kissing and kissing and kissing until his lips go numb, and then kissing and kissing and kissing again as soon as they recover.

“I think about this all the time,” Tamaki admits softly, one hand on Kyoya’s jaw, the other deep in his hair. Kyoya worries he’ll have a permanent cowlick from it. He shuts his eyes tighter and kisses the corner of Tamaki’s mouth, his cheek, his temple, his forehead. Tamaki’s arms slide down and snake around Kyoya’s middle, holding him close. Kyoya feels himself getting dizzy with a sudden rush of self-awareness -  _ This is Tamaki you’re making out with, your best friend, and weren’t you both straight just a few months ago? _

He ignores it. “You do?” he asks, a little out of breath, and continues showering Tamaki’s face with kisses.

Tamaki rubs his hand down Kyoya’s spine and sighs pleasantly, turning his head to one side and, intentionally or not, presenting Kyoya with his neck and ear. Kyoya goes for the latter first, still deciding if he wants to leave marks or not, his stomach doing a flip at the very thought. He experimentally nibbles the shell of Tamaki’s ear and listens to him hum in approval.  _ This is good, then. Good. _

“It’s crazy, I even get distracted during class because of it,” he confesses, voice small, running his hands over Kyoya’s back. Kyoya shivers, breath catching in his throat. “I wanna - It just feels so  _ nice _ , Kyoya. Does kissing always feel this nice?”

Kyoya kisses the corner of Tamaki’s jaw, wondering, and exhales shakily when he hears Tamaki add, “Or is it just kissing you?”

Kyoya swallows, feeling lightheaded. Maybe Tamaki likes kissing Kyoya as much as Kyoya likes kissing Tamaki. 

“How should I know?” he murmurs against Tamaki’s cheek before pressing a kiss there. It simply seems wasteful not to spend every moment he can kissing Tamaki; how he managed to go most of the day without doing so is a mystery right now. 

Tamaki’s increased tactility over the past few weeks suddenly makes complete sense to him - the quick pecks on Kyoya’s cheek during class, shielded from the teacher’s view by a shared textbook; the slow, sweet kisses to his lips as a movie hums in the background.

_ I just wanted to _ , Tamaki would say. No more excuses, no  _ I wanted to know what it feels like _ , no  _ I want to practice for when I find someone I really like _ . He kisses Kyoya just for the sake of kissing him. He kisses Kyoya because during at least a handful of isolated moments throughout the day, he decides it’s been too long since they last did.

_ What a simple reason _ , Kyoya thinks to himself in awe, and then, _ What complicated feelings it inspires. _

They kiss lazily for a bit, the sun eventually disappearing into the ocean and turning the air cold. After a final press of their mouths, they manage to peel themselves off each other and then off the wet sand, shivering in the dark. Limbs heavy and hearts light, they trudge up the beach and gather their things. Tamaki struggles with the umbrella; he pulls it out of the ground and sputters when its canopy abruptly snaps shut, trapping his head against the pole. For a moment, Kyoya watches in amusement as Tamaki flails, letting out muffled cries for help, before sighing and coming to his aid. His reward is a sheepish grin and a soft kiss on the lips.

They have a car bring them back to the beach house, sitting in back and drenching the leather seats, and within the hour they’re showered and dressed for bed.

The manor is big. Not as big as the main Ootori family estate, but  _ big _ \- even by Ouran students’ standards. 

They have no reason to share a room - let alone a  _ bed _ \- but they do anyway.

And, even more shockingly, it’s Kyoya’s idea.

They’ve just finished saying their goodbyes for the night and Tamaki is halfway through shutting his door when some divine force compels Kyoya to reach for him and grab onto the front of his shirt. They both freeze, and in the heavy silence that follows, Kyoya realizes this isn’t the work of cosmic interference at all. Kyoya just really,  _ really  _ doesn’t want to leave Tamaki’s side, and that impulse is 100% his own. He blushes, his palm sweating around the fistful of Tamaki’s shirt he grabbed, and looks up.

“It just,” Kyoya starts, sucking in a quick breath and glancing down the hall to where his own room is, “feels wrong.”

Tamaki chuckles softly and wordlessly steps to the side, holding the door open in invitation. Kyoya steps inside. Somewhere between the door and the bed, they join hands.

They tuck themselves in between the soft sheets, shadows rippling across the fabric in the wake of pale moonlight spilling into the room from the cracked window. If Kyoya listens closely, he can hear the ebb and flow of the ocean, but he has other priorities that demand his attention.

Tamaki wastes no time wrapping his arms around him and tucking Kyoya’s head under his chin, wiggling closer and closer until not an inch of space is left between them. Kyoya feels oddly secure with Tamaki so near - safe, even, though he’s not sure from what. All he knows is that he likes it, might even love it, and never wants it to stop.

He exhales against Tamaki’s collarbone before curling his arms around him in return and breathing in. His skin smells like the aloe lotion he used on his sunburn after his shower and Kyoya can’t help but inhale again.

Tamaki giggles against the top of his head, voice muffled and breath warm. “Are you smelling me?” he asks, both disbelieving and amused. 

Kyoya lifts one of his hands from Tamaki’s back up to his blonde head, fingers sifting through the silky strands of his hair like the pages of a book of poems. He could write poetry about Tamaki’s hair if he wanted to. Maybe he will. He tilts his head back and scooches up so they’re at eye-level, studying Tamaki’s face with attentive eyes and fingers before pushing back his blond bangs and kissing his forehead. The strands are featherlike and citrusy from his shower.

“You smell like oranges,” Kyoya remarks quietly, closing his eyes.

Tamaki grins and buries his face in the crook of Kyoya’s neck. Kyoya hears - and feels - him take a deep breath and then announce, “You smell like peppermint.”

Kyoya gently rakes his fingers through the hair on the back of Tamaki’s neck. “Odd combination,” he whispers.

Tamaki is quiet for a moment. “I like it,” he decides, tilting his head up and kissing Kyoya’s cheek.

Kyoya smiles, feeling weightless yet full. 

“So do I.”

**Author's Note:**

> ive been rewatching nostalgic anime lately and this happened
> 
> anyway! follow me on social media!
> 
>  [main blog](http://eijier.tumblr.com//)  
> [art blog](http://luftballons99.tumblr.com/)  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/waldmotel)


End file.
